What had happened to him? What had happened to the man, Aubry Knight? The man who was a great fighter, even by the standards of Gorgon?
And what of the woman, Promise? What had happened to her? And why did she weep? Ibumi said that tears were a sign of weakness. But was it weakness that motivated one human being to shield another with her body? Is that weakness? There were situations in which one might sacrifice his life for the good of the many. But one life for one? How did this make sense?
What was real? What was real?
The puzzle.
Why did Leslie have the awful feeling that the puzzle had to be solved now, right now, or it would never be, and the consequences might be . . .
Something dire. Death?
Or worse . . . ?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Logic Puzzle
3:39 p.m.
Wu bent gently at the waist as he poured tea for Aubry, Promise, and Jeffry Barathy. Aubry noted that although Wu's almond eyes never remained on him for more than a few seconds, they never strayed away for long, either.
"It has been a long time, Aubry," he said softly. "There are times when, at night, I rub ointment into my neck, and think of your name."
"I hope that your neck doesn't trouble you too much."
"You don't understand," Wu said, his green eyes glittering. "I admire you. With no traditional training, you have managed to overcome formidable barriers of perception. I doubt if there are a dozen men in the world who could have accomplished as much."
Aubry sipped at his tea. "I didn't come here to talk about Nullboxing," he said bluntly.
"Yes, I know."
"I came because you are the only person I know who might be able to put this whole thing together."
"And if this is true, why should I help you?"
Aubry took another sip, and then put the cup down. "Because, Wu—you are the missing piece in this puzzle."
Wu inclined his head politely. "Would you care to explain further?"
"Look at the pieces. Cyloxibin. A Thai-VI infected doctor who worked for the Ortegas. Killinger—who used to work for you, and ended up working for McMartin."
"A former employee is no interest of mine," Wu said mildly.
Aubry leaned forward. His mind was still swirling with the images and labels, all of them riding on flows of feelings. Never in his life had his mind felt so crisp and open.
"My own case is a perfect example, Wu. The Ortegas never let anyone go. But you kept a string on me. There's something big going on, and I can't quite smell it."
Wu sat down across from Aubry, his robes swirling like rose petals in a shallow wind.
"Perhaps you should tell me what you know. Then I will decide what to say. Is that fair?"
Aubry nodded. Promise leaned forward. "There are a number of facts, and none of them lead anywhere happy. One, Sterling DeLacourte is scheduled to die."
"There have been rumors of the 'Oath' for months," Wu said. "I wouldn't be surprised."
Moonman spoke quickly. "Did you know the tool that is intended as the instrument of assassination? Medusas. The hermaphroditic kids the NewMen have been raising for the last few years. They were reaped from the cryogenic child storage facilities created by Ariane Cotonou. Something about what they were doing with those children is part of this whole thing. That's why she had to die."
Wu's eyes narrowed. "I . . . have never considered it appropriate to use young children for a mission such as that."
"They are using them. Next, McMartin Cryogenics is involved. Why? They are linked with DeLacourte."
"Perhaps, just perhaps, they now consider DeLacourte to be more dangerous than they had originally thought."
"Yes. That was what we were told. It doesn't entirely ring true."
"Why not?"
"Because the President of the United States is always bound by the deals that he makes to get to his position. DeLacourte can't make any kinds of drastic changes, regardless of what he claims. The chief executive isn't an emperor."
"There are stories that DeLacourte had made deals with Harris."
Aubry laughed. "To denounce the NewMen? Why in hell would McMartin care? He's the one who drove them out of L.A."
Wu sat staring off into a far horizon, his lips pursed tightly. "I'm not sure we can help each other, Aubry. I think that this interview has reached its conclusion, my dear young friend."
"What?" Promise half rose.
"I'm sorry—"
Aubry met Wu's eyes. "No," he said. "Not this time. No matter what happens to you, Wu, you seem to come out smelling sweet. Not this time. This is too large. It involves my child. And you tried to kill Promise."
"Excuse me?"
"You set me up," Promise said. "You said you'd clear the way for me into Hoopa, and the first thing they did was try to rape me. If I hadn't had a backup, I never would have gotten out alive."
"I assure you—"
Aubry finally opened his eyes. "Wu. There's a piece that's been missing here. Everyone's been trying to figure it out from the pieces. How about taking a look at the man? At you, Wu."
"What exactly do you mean?"
"I mean that your specialty is drugs, so drugs figure in here somewhere. Somehow nasty."
"Cyloxibin ..." Wu offered. His composure was slightly ruffled. Only slightly, though.
"Old hat," Jeffry said. "But I know something that isn't. DEA."
Wu stood slowly, turned like a petal spinning in the wind, and looked out over the city. "2,3-diethylandroe-ternalone is very valuable, but almost impossible to synthesize."
"You can extract it from fetal tissues, Wu."
Promise looked at Moonman. "What are you talking about?"
"Youth serum. About thirty makers and shakers swung over to DeLacourte's camp in the past year and a half. All over sixty. DEA. He hooked 'em."
"Shit. And that's only the ones we know about," Promise said, alarm in her voice. "He could have more—a he of a lot more support than anyone thinks."
Jeffry laughed. "If he has so damn much support, why would he be giving in? Why would he give. . . ?"
He and Aubry looked at each other at the same moment "Unless . . ."
"Unless he isn't giving up." Aubry looked at Wu whose back was still turned.
"Wu," he whispered. "You've got everyone running in circles. Everyone is killing everyone, and one thing that could make sense of the whole damn thing is if Harris is the real target."
"Why would the Gorgons kill their greatest supporter?'
Wu turned, and thought, and the silence was almost tangible thing. "I have no involvement in this thing, c course. . . ."
"Of course," Aubry said. "But if my child dies, and find out that you might have helped me save him, I swear to God you are dead. The Scavengers owe me, owe Promise. There will be no place to hide, Wu."
Wu paused, weighing alternatives, and finally exhale harshly. "What I know changes nothing." He was still thinking at hyperspeed, and finally came to a decision. "Gorgo may not wish Harris's death, but there is someone else who does."
"Swarna."
"Ibumi."
"Holy God. How do we stop it?"
"You cannot," Wu said, almost sadly. "All of th pieces are in place. But perhaps what I have said will help you to save your child. The plan may work, it may not. I person who arranges such a thing has many, many layer between himself and the actions. Only a very few would know the actual plan. Harris will die. DeLacourte think that it will help his bid for the presidency."
"When?" Promise whispered.
"You must examine the convention schedule," Wu sail thoughtfully, "and see when both DeLacourte and President Harris are scheduled to be in the same place at the same time. That will be the moment. That will be the place.'
Chapter Thirty-Three
Death
The motorcade was moving down Jefferson Boulevard toward the convention center. Within the car, Gretchen DeLacourte watched her husband, and thought about things that she hadn't
allowed herself to dwell upon in weeks past.
She reached across to take her son's hand, and she held it tightly. Her husband stared straight ahead, hardly blinking, a thin smile frozen to his face, a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
The interior of the limo seemed very cold . . .
In the crawl space, Medusa-16, also known as Leslie, was contorted beyond normal human tolerance. There was barely room to move, barely air to breathe. He had slowed his respiration down to one per minute, and was in a state that was near coma, all systems on automatic. On the level of subconscious awareness, Leslie was thinking faster and harder than he ever had in his short life.
Information. All he had was information. Barely any impressions, barely any time to form opinions. Evidence suggested that a majority of human action and thought took place in the gray zones between absolutes, between certainties. Yet in his entire education, all that had ever been given to him were absolutes. The statistics, the facts, with the conclusions already neatly drawn.
His head hurt. There was so little time.
His parents had deserted him.
His parents had come for him.
Ordinary humans could not understand what the NewM culture had to offer.
His father was the greatest fighter that Leslie had ever seen, except for Quint.
Women were weak and cowardly and manipulative.
His mother had cushioned him with her own body. . .
The Gorgons were the only family he had. Quint t only human being he could trust.
Quint had lied to him. . . .
There was so much confusion, and so little time.
Aubry and Promise, Bloodeagle and the Gorgons, watch the convention on their Omnivision scans, and the silence was dreadful.
"We can't let him do it, Aubry," Bloodeagle said.
"Could Quint possibly know DeLacourte's true plans?"
Bloodeagle looked at Aubry with scorn. "I thought you understood us better than that. We might have planned kill the man. There is no chance that Quint would plot against his own people. What could the straights possibly offer him? There is no place for him in the other world.
"All right. What is there for us to do?"
"We can't reach Quint. We can't warn the police."
"Yes we can," Bloodeagle said. "We have to. You' right, the children may die." Bloodeagle pulled himself full height. "Aubry. I can't let the NewMan Nation be destroyed."
Aubry hung his head. "No . . ." he whispered. " only we had some idea where the attack was coming. Ai when. And how."
"But we don't."
"We've got to flush them out."
Aubry turned to Jeffry. "I hate asking this. Marina mentioned that you have an emergency path into DeLacourte network."
"But if I use it, they'll be able to trace it back. They find me."
"They'll find your home in Bismarck. They won't find you. A promise. We need to bypass the police. We need to get right into the convention center, and fast. How long will it take you?"
Jeffry looked around. "All I really have to do is patch into the telephone lines to get to my system in Bismarck. From there I can activate the satellite patch, and . . . about fifteen minutes. I won't be able to keep it going for more than about fifteen seconds."
"Do it."
Marina walked the floor of the convention center, feeling her stomach knot as DeLacourte's limousine disgorged its passengers. DeLacourte, his wife, and their security personnel were moving toward the massive concrete podium, moving toward President Harris, who stood addressing the people below him. They hung onto his every word, waving their flags, singing their songs of support.
Oh, God. God. Where was it? Where were the killers?
DeLacourte, and his wife and child, took the podium, and he and the President of the United States shook hands, hard. DeLacourte took the podium and began to speak.
"My fellow Americans—"
There was a sudden burst of static from the hundred television sets mirroring his words around the room as their pictures wavered, and turned to fuzz. DeLacourte smiled indulgently. "My technical people are a little excited today."
There was a general ripple of laughter.
Then laughter died. "This is Moonman," Jeffry Barathy said. ' I have to warn you. Sterling DeLacourte has planned the assassination of the President of the United States. The attempt will occur at this convention. This is not a joke. He has addicted the following senators to a longevity drug called Androeternalone, extracted from the blood of unborn fetuses. Scqfield—"
The crowd reacted with stunned silence. A dozen hands flew to the television monitors and turned them off, but still, a few sets remained in operation.
Then there was nothing on them.
DeLacourte stood at the podium, his face ashen. "I—"
And above him, an explosion. A section of ceiling gave way, collapsed. DeLacourte screamed, and ducked beneath the cover of the podium, the only cover on the entire stage. But the Secret Service men, primed and alert from the abrupt, incredible message, were already in movement. They hit the President and Mrs. DeLacourte instantly as concrete and steel rained down from thirty feet above, a ghastly avalanche of wires and chunks of glass and steel and plaster.
Death.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Madness
Gretchen DeLacourte knelt in the rubble, crouched over her son, holding him, moaning softly, kissing his brow, as the entire room dissolved into confusion.
Marina came in more closely, feeling as if she were watching the entire scene through a holo viewer. She found herself mentally calling camera shots, mentally composing her narration, and hating herself for it. The holotape camera on her shoulder whirred quietly.
Marina bent, almost unconsciously, and looked into Conley DeLacourte's face. The little face was dusted with plaster, red oozing slowly from beneath the tragic mask.
DeLacourte had crawled out from under the podium, and was in shock. His mouth opened and closed and opened again like a fish out of water. "I . . . I . . ."
He cleared his throat, and Marina could almost see the gears in his head begin to turn, churn, and the words begin to come out. Even as the President of the United States watched him. Even as his wife held the torn body of their child in her arms. The news cameras gathered closer. Marina listened and watched, and couldn't rid herself of the impression that this speech had been carefully rehearsed.
"I ... I consider this action a direct assault on the Constitution of the United States by its sworn enemies, the forces ... of, uh ... the NewMen swore that would never . . ." He shook his head. His eyes met the eyes of the President, and he seemed confused. "... this great man who died ..."
Marina moved in closer to DeLacourte, closer to the man who had dominated her life for so long, and saw through his eyes, to something broken, whirring out of control in the precious machinery behind them.
Gretchen DeLacourte stood, shaking as the ambulance took her child's body away. "You knew," Gretchen whispered, walking up to her husband. Her voice was gravel. "You knew. What happened, Sterling? Did the bomb go off a little early? Who'd you make the deal with, Sterling?" She advanced at him, her hands drawn into claws. "What did you promise them? Twenty minutes in prime time, you bastard?"
"No . . . I . . ." DeLacourte turned and looked at the cameras around him, surrounding him, and he was as white as a sheet.
"I—"
Jack Hands of the security guards moved in next to him, and started pushing the reporters back. "Excuse me. We need to clear a space here—"
"You KNEW!!" She screamed, and her hand flashed out, faster than anyone could stop her, and pulled the pistol from the holster of the security guard. DeLacourte reared back, his silver hair seeming suddenly white, his whipcord body suddenly skeletal, lurching back from his wife as if she were the yawning gate of hell.
Hands snatched at her hands, but not before she fired three times, directly into DeLacourte's face.
Aubry and the others sa
t in stunned silence, the news camera lurching around the room, the wreckage of the ceiling, the crushed bodies sprawled like awful shattered dolls.
"I . . ." Bloodeagle started to speak, to lay his hand on Aubry's shoulder, but Aubry was deadly quiet, deadly silent, and unmoving. Bloodeagle pulled his hand away. Despite Aubry's injuries, there was something about him that seemed to swarm up from the depths of his soul, something larger than pain or hurt, something that was terrifying in its quiet.
Promise whispered, "My baby." Her face dropped down into her hands.
Aubry moved to comfort her, and her arm snaked like smoke around his waist. She buried herself against him.
"They're going to die for this," he said, his voice barely audible. "I swear to you. Ibumi and Quint are going to die."
"I don't want death, Aubry." Promise's voice was heavy. "I wanted life. Life for us. Together. Life for our child. It isn't about death, Aubry. It's about life."
Aubry looked at her numbly, and slowly his arm fell away.
Bloodeagle brooded. "I don't know where Ibumi is, but we have to find him, and take him. Alive if we can. But we have to bring him in, not the police. Not the Secret Service. It has to be Gorgon."
"Why?"
"Don't you understand? This whole thing is insane. No matter how many cut-offs they have, someone is going down for this. The public is going to want a patsy. Even though we made the warning, that won't save us. Not in a hundred years. Our only chance is Quint."
"And where is he?"
Darkness. The Stealth ship's engines vibrated through the metal. Leslie shifted his position, and peered out through the grille. At the controls, Ibumi and Quint handled the delicate maneuvers as the radar-invisible vehicle headed out of the city, out to the northeast.
He had been lied to. Used. The only beings that he had ever trusted had tried to kill him. Unbidden, tears streamed down his face. There was nowhere to go! No one to trust.
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